


The Things You Haven't Done

by thesaddestboner



Series: Author's Favorites [2]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crushes, Detroit Tigers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-07
Updated: 2007-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Rabelo realizes that he can’t tell what color Nate’s eyes are behind his glasses.  He realizes that he wishes he knew.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things You Haven't Done

**Author's Note:**

> These are [Nate Robertson and Mike Rabelo](http://anonym.to/?http://dekeysersoze.files.wordpress.com/2013/12/bilde-21-3.jpg). I think this is the second pairing of mine that has been ripped apart by a trade during the writing process. Obviously I am a curse. 
> 
> Also, many thanks to [**americanleaguer**](http://americanleaguer.livejournal.com/) and [**bee_yes**](http://bee_yes.livejournal.com/) for their excellent beta work, and yakking with me in IMs about it.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

No, you don’t get any fun  
out of the things you haven’t done.

\- Ogden Nash, _Portrait of the Artist as a Prematurely Old Man_

Mike Rabelo walks up to home plate and scuffs the heel of his cleat in the dirt. The sun beats down hard, packs itself deeply into his skin, wraps tightly around him like a shroud. Lugging catcher’s equipment in hundred degree weather isn’t fun and games, not by a long shot, but Rabelo wouldn’t have it any other way. The game makes all of it worth it. Days like this make the torture guys inflict on their bodies and minds for the next nine months well worth it.

Ten if you’re lucky.

Rabelo scans the open field, green as far back as the horizon, where crisp green grass meets the sapphire blue of the sky. There’s not a single cloud to mar the perfection of Lakeland in mid February. _It can’t get more perfect than this_ , Rabelo thinks to himself, a tiny smile hinging on the corners of his mouth.

“Hey, Rabs.” The grating-yet-completely-jovial voice of Nate Robertson invades Rabelo’s thoughts, jarring him out of his reverie. Rabelo casts a _very_ annoyed look at his pitcher, and Robertson, typically, beams at the expression on Rabelo’s face. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’ much. Just mindin’ my own business,” Rabelo says. He offers Robertson a too-bright smile that Robertson can probably see right through. “Ready for some baseball, Nate?”

“I was _born_ ready,” Robertson brags.

Rabelo rolls his eyes. “Impressive. Popped outta your mom’s cooch with a glove and everything?”

“Damn straight.” Robertson grins, eyes crinkling in at the corners.

Rabelo realizes that he can’t tell what color Nate’s eyes are behind his glasses. He realizes that he wishes he knew. He wonders if they’re green, like the grass stretched out before them, clean as a painter’s canvas. Or if they’re blue, like the shimmering neon sky hovering above them.

Rabelo shakes the random thought out of his head and steps up to Robertson, tapping him on the chest with his glove, catcher’s mask pushed up, squiggles of orange and blue dancing under the bright, whitehot rays of the sun. “Let’s go, then. Let’s see what ya got.”

*

Rabelo leans against the bullpen fence, a duffel of his catching gear slung over his shoulder. Even with the heavy padding and equipment, the colorful hockey-style mask all tucked neatly into his duffel, he can still feel the thick Florida sun baking right into him. Leyland probably won’t ever know how thankful Rabelo was when he told him to take the morning off.

Bright, cheerful shouts cut sharply into Rabelo’s thoughts and he glances up. Pudge is chattering happily, flapping his glove at Zumaya, the big right-hander who’d been Rabelo’s teammate down in Toledo.

“Throw me the hard stuff,” Pudge yells over the _whooshes_ of balls in flight and the _cracks_ as they hit the catchers’ mitts, slamming his fist into his glove. “E’rybody wants to see the fas’ball!”

Zumaya flashes Pudge a big, white grin, cheeks dimpling. “Well, if that’s what the people wanna see.” 

Zumaya rocks back, glove drawn to his waist, eyes fixed at some indeterminate point in the dirt. Zumaya’s large frame lunges forward as he launches the ball, as it explodes out of his hand. The ball darts perfectly into Pudge’s waiting glove with a _snap_ and a cloud of dust. Every head turns at the sound, in the direction of the pitcher who’s just thrown that blazing pitch.

Zumaya straightens up, dark eyes flashing with mischief. “How fast you think _that_ one was?” he crows, holding up his glove for the return.

Pudge jumps out of his crouch grinning, eyes crinkling, and fires the ball back. “Gotta be hun’red, hun’red an’ one miles an hour, easy,” he yelps, high-pitched, ever excitable.

“Don’t feed his ego, Pudge. He’ll just try to throw the next one at _two_ hundred miles per hour,” one of the other pitchers, Verlander, cackles. “He’ll try to blow you right through the backstop.”

An instinctive smile passes over Rabelo’s face and he leans over the fence, watching the banter with keen interest.

The second-string catcher, Vance, gets up out of his crouch and cups a hand around his mouth. “If you don’t stop yakkin’, I’m gonna blow _you_ right through the backstop.”

Verlander’s eyes bug out comically, and every muscle in his face twitches as he struggles not to laugh. “You wish,” Verlander calls back.

Rabelo laughs quietly into his arm, tucked away unnoticed and quite liking it that way. He rests his chin on his forearm and follows the banter back and forth between Vance and Verlander. Vance flips a ball out to Verlander that thunks him in the chest and Verlander runs in, wields his glove like he’s going to thump Vance over the head with it. Zumaya giggles exuberantly, loving every minute of this, eyes shining.

“Hey!” A hand closes around Rabelo’s shoulder and he loses his grip on the chain-link fencing, falling back into a sturdy chest and bristle on the back of his neck.

“Fuck, Nate. Way to sneak up on a guy,” Rabelo grumbles, jerking away from Robertson and straightening his t-shirt. Robertson is still wearing that damn shit-eating grin he had on earlier in the day. Rabelo’s fingers twitch, itching to punch it off his face for sending his heart rate skyrocketing. “Very cute.”

“Thought so myself,” Robertson says, crossing his arms over his chest. The sun reflects off his glasses, and Rabelo still can’t see his eyes. “What’cha up to, Rabs? Spyin’?”

“Just watchin’ bullpen,” Rabelo says with a shrug. “Seems to be goin’ good, ’cept that Justin keeps tryin’ to kill Vance.” He jerks his thumb in the direction of the bullpen, and the frenzied yelps that have _got_ to be Verlander and Vance horsing around like a couple of schoolkids.

Robertson looks over and a grin cracks across his face. “Chuck looks pissed as fuck,” Robertson says.

“Serves ’em right.” Rabelo bends over and picks up his duffel bag, slinging it back over his head. His heartbeat has finally settled into an easy rhythm, no longer jackrabbitting out of his chest, up into his throat thanks to Robertson.

“Somebody’s a fuckin’ sourpuss today,” Robertson goads.

“It’s ’cause of you and your bein’ all sneaky and shit,” Rabelo says, tugging at the strap of his duffel bag, snapping it against his chest.

“Sneaky like a fox,” Robertson agrees, with a nod. “Wanna catch a bite? Me an’ Mikey are gonna stop at a fast-food joint for some Egg McMuffins and coffee.”

“Jeeze, the season hasn’t even started yet and you guys are already goin’ off your regimens?” Rabelo asks, arching his eyebrows at Robertson.

“Egg McMuffins _are_ in our regimens, Rabs,” Robertson points out with a smirk.

Rabelo shakes his head, motioning to Robertson to follow him to his truck. “You guys are unbelievable. Javair’s gonna kick both your asses, I hope you know that.”

“We can take ’em together.” Robertson leans against the passenger’s door as Rabelo dumps his gear into the truckbed and pokes around in the cab, pulling out his iPod and earbuds, pocketing them.

Rabelo pops out of the truck and knocks the door shut with his hip. “Long as you tell yourself that, man,” he says, shaking his head. “Javair’s a big dude. I don’t think two lily-white wussy boys are gonna be enough to hold him back.”

“I ain’t no wussy boy,” Robertson says, huffing the sentence out on one long, petulant breath.

“You sayin’ Maroth is, then?” Rabelo counters, heading back toward the training complex with Robertson at his side, damn incorrigible puppy that he is. The iPod bumps against Rabelo’s hip in the pocket of his mesh shorts and he pulls it out, sliding it into a black armband that he secures to his upper arm.

“Yes,” Robertson deadpans, “yes, I am.”

Rabelo laughs, swinging the iPod earbuds from his hand, and steps inside, holding the door for Robertson. “I’m sure he appreciates the sentiment.”

Robertson beams, glasses catching the rays of the sun and reflecting them back, and Rabelo has to avert his gaze. “ ’Course he does.” He slips in behind Rabelo and nudges the door shut.

Rabelo pauses when he feels Robertson’s bristle on the back of his neck again. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “You really have to stop doin’ that, man.”

“Y’know I’m only doin’ it ’cause it bugs the shit outta ya,” Robertson whispers into Rabelo’s ear, a smile in his voice.

“Oh,” Rabelo grunts, stepping aside, “ _that_ I know.” He lances Robertson with a glare. “Let’s round up Maroth and go clog our arteries with delicious cholesterol.”

Robertson turns his blinding grin on Rabelo. “It’s a date.”

Rabelo only rolls his eyes and slugs Robertson in the shoulder.

*

Maroth leans across the table and snags a french fry from Robertson’s red cardboard container. “Well, it’s not _my_ fault they stop serving Egg McMuffins at eleven,” he says, around a chewed up french fry.

Robertson bats Maroth’s hand away, hoarding the fries for himself. “Damn right it is,” he says, nibbling on one daintily. “If it wasn’t for your skinny white ass bein’ so hard to find, we’d’ve got here with time to spare.”

Rabelo looks up from his chicken Caesar salad. “Are you guys sure _this_ is on your regimen?” he asks, poking at the leafy greens with little interest.

Robertson picks up another fry and nibbles on it, turning toward Rabelo. “ ’Course it is. Potato is a vegetable. That’s one of the food groups, ain’t it, man?” He jabs his fry at Rabelo for emphasis with every word.

“Sure, but not when they’re deep fried in grease.” Rabelo shovels a forkful of salad into his mouth and chews.

“I’m improvi – hey!” Robertson pauses to whack Maroth’s hand away from his french fries. “If you wanted ’em so bad, you shoulda ordered ’em yourself.”

“You ordered them, so I’m sharing with you,” Maroth replies smartly, sitting back with a handful of Robertson’s fries. “Sharing is caring anyway, Nate.” He offers him a sweet smile, aquamarine eyes twinkling merrily like cut gems.

“The things I put up with. You see this?” Robertson asks Rabelo, gesturing to his half-empty container of fries.

“He’s steppin’ all over you, man. Time to put your foot down.” Rabelo takes a slug of Coke to wash down the bland taste of the salad.

Robertson shakes his head at Maroth, but Rabelo figures he can’t be that angry, because the corner of Robertson’s mouth is twisted up in a little smirk. “Walkin’ all over me, man. Y’heard what he said.”

Maroth’s grin widens. “You like it.”

Rabelo chokes down the rest of his salad and sits back, sipping on his soda. “Javair’s gonna kill us,” he grumbles. “He’ll probably make us do wind sprints.”

Robertson wolfs down the rest of his fries, much to Maroth’s disappointment, and starts on his quarter pounder. “Javair’ll live,” he snorts. “We all deserve little indulgences every now’n then, anyways.” Robertson takes a big bite of the burger and grabs for a stack of napkins when it explodes all over his face, a streak of ketchup smearing down his chin, into his beard.

“Lovely.” Rabelo rolls his eyes.

Robertson wipes his face clean. “Any of it caught in my beard?” he asks, leaning over so Rabelo can inspect.

“No, I think you got it,” he says, glancing over at Maroth. “How do you two keep from killing each other? I’ve only had the misfortune of spending, like, an hour total in this guy’s presence, and I already wanna brain him.”

Maroth snickers. “Barely,” he grins, over his chicken sandwich.

Robertson grins at Rabelo, bits of food caught in his teeth. “My mom says I’m charmin’.”

“Your mom must be blind, deaf _and_ dumb.” Rabelo snorts.

Robertson rolls his eyes. “My mom’s got good taste, man.”

“I dunno. She married your dad.” Rabelo gives him a sweet little smirk.

Robertson whacks him on the shoulder. “C’mon, man. Low blow.”

“Sorry man, you asked for it.” Rabelo grins over at him.

“Guess I did, huh?” Robertson grins back, and then pauses, furrowing his brow.

“What is it?” Maroth looks up from his half-eaten chicken sandwich.

“Nothin’. Just got mystery sauce on my glasses.” Robertson slides the frames off and looks down at them, rubbing his thumb over a smudge of sauce on the lens.

Rabelo pushes his empty salad bowl aside and glances over. “A napkin might help.” He plucks one out of the napkin holder and offers it out to Robertson with a smirk.

“Gee. Thanks, Mom.” Robertson ducks his head and wipes at the lens.

Rabelo smiles to himself, runs a napkin through his fingers. He finally has his answer. 

Robertson’s eyes are blue.

*

The hovering blue sky opens up above them without warning, torrential downpour stinging into Rabelo’s eyes and needling his uncovered skin. There are still no clouds in the sky, haven’t been all week, no explanation for this Biblical-style deluge.

Guys grab up their gear and head for shelter; well, most of the guys do, at any rate. Zumaya throws his arms up and streaks out from the bullpen as everybody else is running in, crazy and shoeless, stomps in every puddle he can find. Soon Verlander’s taking long, gazelle-like strides after him, cuffs of his uniform pants rolled up, and then Tata and Vasquez scramble after them, and Leyland just throws up his hands, says, “Fuck it,” and lets them go.

Pudge laughs quietly to himself and stoops down to unclasp his shinguards. They clatter to the concrete noisily and he toes them aside. “Crazy kids,” he says, and Rabelo looks around to see whom he’s speaking to before realizing that he and Pudge are the only ones there; everyone else has headed inside. “They gonna all get headcolds, runnin’ ’round without shoes on in the rain and stuff.”

Rabelo looks up to watch Verlander grab Zumaya by the hands and sling him into the wet grass. The two of them go sliding, and Zumaya wrestles Verlander down to the ground, pinning him with his massive bulk, both of them grinning and giggling. Rabelo can’t help but smile a little bit, too.

“They’re having fun, at least,” he points out, tugging at his heavy nylon padding, something in his chest itching to be out there with them, acting like fools in the rain. It’s there though, funny, tickling feeling in his chest. He tries to push it down, but it won’t go away.

“Game is about fun, no?” Pudge steps up next to Rabelo, his catcher’s gear all packed up, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Pudge follows Rabelo’s gaze out to the four young pitchers, crawling all over one another in the mud. Pudge breaks into a grin. “Why’n’t you go out there an’ have some fun too, no?” He slaps Rabelo on the back.

Rabelo’s face falls a little bit. “Aw, no, Pudge, I can’t do that. I gotta work on the scou – ” Pudge interrupts him gently.

“When we no havin’ fun, is time to say goodbye,” he says, sliding his hand between Rabelo’s shoulder blades, giving him a hearty pat. “You go out there. I tell Jim I work on the scouting reports instead. You go have fun.”

Rabelo smiles at Pudge, their eyes locking, before hastily stripping off his chest protector and shinguards. “Thanks, Pudge,” he says gratefully, unable to keep the smile on his face from stretching ear-to-ear.

Pudge gives Rabelo a wink and a nod before heading in.

Rabelo turns back to the pile of pitcher, the four of them giggling and squirming around in the mud, kicks off his cleats and rolls up his the legs of his pants. “Watch out, guys,” he hollers, slipping and sliding across the grass, “ ’cause here I come!”

*

The sky is a bright, neon shade of blue and the sun is painted perfectly above them when they find out Vance isn’t going to be making the trip north, when they break camp.

Leyland calls Rabelo into his office the afternoon they head out, and Rabelo is sure – can feel it in his bones – that he’s going to be sent packing to Toledo. He’s already prepared a short little speech thanking Leyland for the opportunity to show what he can do by the time he’s pulled up a seat in front of the skipper’s cluttered desk.

Rabelo flicks his gaze to the stacks of papers on Leyland’s desk; he can make out various lineups, almost all of them with names scribbled out in marker, other names penciled in. He strains to see if he can make out his own name, but his eyes start to cross, so he gives up and sits back in his seat.

Leyland sits back and clasps long, thin fingers over his chest. Leyland’s index and middle finger are yellowed, from years of smoking, and Rabelo can make out a faint yellowish stain on the ends of his mustache. “Got some bad news today,” Leyland says, rocking back in his chair a little bit.

Rabelo holds himself still, tightly controlled, hoping to God he doesn’t do something embarrassing, like tear up in front of the team’s manager. “Yeah?” he asks, surprising even himself with how calm he sounds.

“Yeah,” Leyland nods. He shuffles some of the papers into a folder and tucks it under his desk. He pauses, drawing out the suspense into a long, thin line. “Looks like you’re gonna be comin’ up with the resta us,” he finally says.

Rabelo doesn’t think he’s heard him right. “Comin’ up – where?” he asks.

“To Detroit,” Leyland says, deliberately, as if Rabelo is dense, or maybe just plain stupid. “Vance’s goin’ on the DL. Elbow thing ain’t healin’ up like it should.”

Rabelo sits back, stunned. “I’m – I made it?”

Leyland nods. “You made it, kid.” He holds out a hand to Rabelo, small smile curving his lips when Rabelo blinks at him. “Congratulations.”

Rabelo grasps Leyland’s hand in his, firmly, unable to keep the smile from his face, as bad as he feels for Vance losing his spot on the team this way. “Thank you,” he says, finally slipping his hand away. He stands up, that funny feeling back in his chest. He offers Leyland another smile before turning and hurrying out of his office for the nearest payphone. 

Rabelo can’t wait to call his parents back home in New Port Richey, can’t wait to tell them the good news, that their son has finally made a Major League roster out of Spring Training. Sure, it’s only because Vance is hurt, but it’s not like the team didn’t have their share of guys auditioning for backup catcher. Torrealba, Sardinha, Peterson, Graham, all those guys got good looks from the coaching staff and they chose _him_.

Rabelo runs smack into the middle of Robertson’s chest.

“Whoa, whoa. Easy there, big fella,” Robertson says, easing Rabelo back with a hand over his heart. “Where’s the fire?”

Rabelo grins. “I made the team, man. Vance’s goin’ to the DL and I _made_ it!”

Robertson grins back, eyes shining, shimmering neon like the sky hovering above the training complex, cloudless and clear. “That’s great news, Rabs,” he says, giving Rabelo a squeeze on the arm. “Whaddaya say we go out and celebrate? Couplea beers, on me.”

“What, won’t Mikey want you back before curfew,” Rabelo quips before he can stop himself. He immediately feels bad, but Robertson keeps on grinning.

“I think he’ll manage without me. He can get some other poor fool to do Bible study with.” Robertson slings an arm around Rabelo’s shoulders, gives him a light squeeze. “See ya later?”

Rabelo nods. “ ’Course, man. See ya.”

Robertson slips away, and as Rabelo heads for the payphone, he’s sure he can hear Robertson say, “I’m real proud of you,” but when he turns around, no one’s there.

*

Robertson drags Rabelo out to a bar they’ve both been to a million times over the years, a real team hotspot during Spring Training. But when it’s just the two of them and the smoky little dive bar, the atmosphere seems different. It strikes Rabelo as calmer, more peaceful, almost _intimate_. When it’s, like, fifteen guys crammed into two stretch limos, it’s pretty easy to forget what real intimacy even is. Especially when you’ve got Bobby Seay breathing creepily down the back of your neck. That’s not intimate, that’s just fucking creepy.

When it’s just him and Robertson, though, it’s not so bad.

Robertson isn’t a hard drinker on principle; he’s a good Christian boy from Wichita who’s always believed in taking everything in moderation, in abstaining from _most_ intoxicating pleasures. Tonight, however, is a little different. Tonight they’re celebrating Mike Rabelo’s ascent to the Major Leagues, to a fucking _Opening Day roster_.

Robertson thunks a shot glass in front of Rabelo, beaming. “Drink up, me hearties,” he says, in a lousy fake pirate accent.

Rabelo snorts. “Aye, aye, cap’n.” Rabelo fingers the glass and slugs down the shot of tequila. He squints his eyes and sets the glass back down. “I thought pirates drank rum.”

“Not _this_ pirate,” Robertson says, shotgunning a series of tequila shots in rapid succession. Robertson smacks the last glass down and sucks back a breath. “This pirate likes himself some good ol’ _Mehican_ tequila.” Robertson downs another shot and flags the bartender over for a fresh round, quickly choking down a few glasses before passing Rabelo another one.

Rabelo accepts the shot but doesn’t drink it. He’s too busy watching Robertson sway in his seat, amused, ’cause it’s become quite evident that the dude really can’t hold his liquor and out of everyone on the team, Rabelo had thought Robertson would have a tolerance for this stuff.

“You fuckin’ lightweight,” Rabelo says fondly, fiddling with his glass.

“I can handle my tequila, the fuck you talkin’ about?” Robertson sways into the bar and closes thick, callused fingers around Rabelo’s shot glass, mumbling into the sleek, black lacquer countertop. “This the las’ one,” he slurs, raising an eyebrow in question at Rabelo.

“Sure. Help yourself.” Rabelo rolls his eyes and pushes it into Robertson’s hand.

“Th’nks!” Robertson grins and downs the last shot.

“Welcome.” Rabelo sits back and flags a bartender over to order a soda.

Robertson twirls the empty glass in his hand. “Well, _that_ was fun.”

“You sure look like you enjoyed it,” Rabelo quips, straightening in his seat and digging out his credit card to pay the tab. Robertson rests a hand lightly on Rabelo’s arm and he glances over. “What?”

“I got it,” Robertson says, slapping his wallet down on the counter. “ ’s on me.”

“Not like I can’t handle it,” Rabelo says, handing the bartender his card anyway. He tucks Robertson’s wallet back in his hand and slides off his stool, slipping an arm around Robertson’s waist to lend him support.

“I’m not _that_ drunk,” Robertson sniffs, furrowing his brow. “ ’m not some fuckin’ lightweight. I can hold my alcohol.”

Rabelo offers Robertson a nod, taking his card back and leading him to the exit. “ ’Course you are, man. Totally.”

“You’re just humorin’ me now.” Robertson loops an arm around Rabelo’s shoulders and curls his fingers in the shoulder of his t-shirt, staggering toward the door.

“You’re a sharp one.” Rabelo gets the door open and guides Robertson out, onto the sidewalk. The damp, heavy night air blasts Rabelo in the face and almost immediately, he can feel the perspiration beading across his forehead, on the back of his neck and his bare arms.

Robertson slings his arms around Rabelo in a big bear of a hug, stubble scratching on the back of his neck. “You’re my _fav’rite_ ,” he singsongs, slurring the words into one another, until they’re nearly indistinguishable, “you’re my fav’rite, you’re my most fav’rite catcher in the _world_.” 

Rabelo seizes up at the stubble on the back of his neck and tries to squirm away. “Dude, quit it.”

Robertson stumbles and loses his footing, the two of them tumbling to the sidewalk, scraping palms and knees on the rough concrete. “You’re still my favorite, Mikey,” Robertson giggles. “ _Pudge_ woul’n’t buy me tequila shots!”

Rabelo pushes himself up and brushes his palms off on his knees. “Aw, man, you broke your glasses.” He picks up the wire frames and shakes free the shattered glass. “Come on, we better get goin’. Leyland’s gonna be steamed if he finds out.” Rabelo stands and offers Robertson his hand, tucking the bent frames in his pocket.

Robertson closes a warm, callused hand around Rabelo’s and pulls himself to his feet wobblingly. Robertson staggers dramatically, knees buckling, and Rabelo looks an arm firmly around his waist. “Can’t see, everything’s blurry,” Robertson mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. “Plus, everything’s movin’.”

“C’mon, just lean on me and I’ll get us back in one piece,” Rabelo sighs. He turns and guides Robertson along, soles of his sneakers crunching over the broken glass.

*

The sky is an ominous, slate-gray hue for Opening Day, dark rolling clouds threatening icy temperatures and a chance of snow. The wintry chill slices deep into Rabelo’s bones, through the heavily-padded winter coat, woolen cap, and layers of uniform, undershirt and long-johns he’s bundled himself into.

Guys rub mittened hands together on the bench and stomp their cleats to keep warm. And when they speak, their breath crystallizes in the air, billowing like plumes of cigarette smoke. Not a perfect day for baseball, by any means. More like hockey weather, or even football weather.

But then again, it’s _Opening Day_ , and as Rabelo curls toward the warm body next to him on the bench, nose running and eyes watering, as the public address announcer introduces the championship team to the fans, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Inge clomps back into the dugout, clutching a varnished wood box and a white envelope. The end of his nose and the tips of his ears are bright red, and his eyes are watering too; Rabelo wonders if it’s from the stinging cold or the ceremony on the field, the glittering diamond ring in that mahogany box.

Inge sits down between Casey and Vance and opens the box, sliding free the cut glass top with shaking, chapped hands.

“Yours is bigger than mine,” Vance complains, slipping a large, ornately designed ring onto his finger and waving it around in Casey’s and Inge’s faces.

Inge slides on his own championship ring and holds up his hand, cluster of blue and white diamonds winking and glinting like snowflakes against a backdrop of blue sky. “Naw, I think they’re all the same size.” Inge beams, smile reaching all the way to his eyes. “Ain’t she a beaut?”

“C’mon, Ingey, let me try it,” Rabelo says, holding out his hands. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

Inge chuckles and drops the ring into Rabelo’s palms. “Don’t you go droppin’ it now,” he warns, sliding the pane of glass back in place.

Rabelo slips the ring onto his finger and examines it, twirls it on his finger. The bright blue diamonds remind Rabelo of the perfect skies that had stretched over the Lakeland training complex that Spring Training.

“Pretty impressive, huh?” Inge’s voice invades Rabelo’s thoughts like a battering ram. A cheerful battering ram, at least.

Rabelo slides the ring off and hands it to Inge, nodding. “Yeah. ’snice.”

Inge beams and Rabelo looks up at the portentous, gray April sky, wishing it was as blue as the diamonds in Inge’s ring.

*

Spending time with Robertson means spending time with Maroth, too. You really can’t have one without the other, a regular two-for-one deal. The two of them are best friends, have been since that awful 2003 season when Maroth lost twenty-one games and Robertson was barely a rookie, hotheaded and raw. Maroth took Robertson under his wing, turned him away from a life of sin, fast living and overthrown fastballs, to a life in Christ and well-located changeups.

They almost seem like an old married couple at times, pushing one another’s buttons, bickering but always with matching Colgate-bright smiles. Rabelo wonders how they haven’t grown sick of each other yet.

“I’m taking my parents out to breakfast,” Maroth announces on the short flight from Washington into Atlanta. “And then Brooke and I are taking our boys to the aquarium with my parents. I can’t wait.”

Robertson removes his headphones and nods along. “Sounds pretty excitin’. You don’t get to see them that often, do you?”

“Nah. Travel is tough on my dad,” Maroth says, lifting his hips to pull his wallet out of his back pocket. He flips it open and passes it to Robertson. “That’s my dad with Nolan for his third birthday.”

Rabelo leans into Robertson’s shoulder and glances down at the picture. Maroth’s grinning father is sitting in a wheelchair with a happy, icing-covered child in his lap.

Robertson chuckles. “He try to swim in the cake or what?”

“Basically.” Maroth laughs and takes his wallet back. “Brooke had a heck of a time cleaning him up after that.”

Rabelo sits back and smiles a little, pulling a crossword puzzle out of his carry-on bag, checking out of the conversation. Robertson leans across the aisle to continue talking with Maroth and Rabelo slips on his headphones, drowning them out with a George Strait tune.

Rabelo starts to dose off, forehead pressed lightly against the cool glass, as George sings about booze and broken hearts.

*

Rabelo can’t see the sky from the window of his hotel room, Atlanta skyline punctuated by slate-gray skyscrapers, save a tiny sliver of white-blue. It’s really disconcerting. Rabelo closes the blinds with a disappointed sigh and dumps his carry-on bag on his bed.

“Hey, Rabs.”

Rabelo looks up. “Hey, Nate. Did you and Mikey get a room with a view of the skyline? I can’t see anything ’cept skyscrapers. Fucking depressing.”

Robertson chuckles. “We got the same view as you did, man. We all did.” Robertson lets himself into Rabelo's room without an invitation, and sits himself down on the empty bed. “Who're you with this time?”

“Raburn. They always stick us together,” Rabelo grumbles, loosening his collar and flopping onto the other bed. “Would it kill them to throw in a little variety every now and then? Jesus.”

“I think they just stick you with Raburn ’cause he annoys you so much,” Robertson says, with a grin. "They always stick me with Mikey ’cause – ”

“Nate?”

Both Robertson and Rabelo look up. The shadow lingers in the doorway, and then resolves itself to reveal Maroth, pale-eyed and ashen.

“Mikey? You look like shit,” Robertson says, a nervous smirk flickering at the corners of his mouth.

Maroth crosses his arms over his chest, the fingers of his right hand curling around his elbow, pressing over the scar from last year’s surgery. “I - I, uh. I’ve been traded.”

“Get outta town.” Robertson turns back to Rabelo, blue eyes twinkling. “Anyway, I – ”

“No, I'm serious, Nate. They’re sending me to St. Louis. Player to, uh, player to be named later.” Cracks start to show in Maroth’s usually steadfast composure, and Rabelo feels oddly like an eavesdropper. He looks away, at the skyscrapers outside his window, wishing he could see the blue.

Robertson clambers out of the bed and heads over to Maroth, putting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “You wanna get some coffee downstairs an’ talk?” he asks.

“I have to call my parents,” Maroth stammers. “Tell them not to bother with the trip.” His face falls and his features sag. Rabelo flicks his gaze away from the two of them again and fidgets uncomfortably on the bed. Maroth’s breathing grows uneven, and Rabelo can tell he’s trying so hard not to cry, clinging to the last vestiges of his dignity with everything he's got.

“Come on. Let’s go.” Robertson slips his hand to Maroth’s elbow and leads him out the door, shutting it gently behind them.

*

Rabelo doesn’t see Robertson again until the next day, when the players start filtering into the clubhouse for pre-game meals and workouts. Robertson looks like he has ten years’ worth of bags under his eyes, looks like he hasn’t slept but a wink in just as long. His mess of red-blond hair sticks up in clumps, and Rabelo can make out sleep-creases on both his cheeks.

“Hey, Nate. You look like shit.” Rabelo sidles over to Robertson’s locker and nudges him lightly with his elbow.

Robertson grunts. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Uh, is Mikey okay?” Rabelo asks.

Robertson gives Rabelo a paralyzed deer-in-headlights look and Rabelo wonders what the hell it is he said. “Rough night.” Robertson sweeps his hands over his face with a weary sigh.

“Sorry. Anything I can do?” he asks, reaching out tentatively to touch Robertson’s shoulder, not expecting the flinch in response.

Robertson slants Rabelo a look. “No . . . Maybe. I don’t know.”

“We can go out after the game. Grab some drinks or something,” Rabelo says, slipping his hand away.

“I guess,” Robertson mumbles, unenthusiastically.

“Well, if you don’t want to – ” Rabelo starts, but Robertson interrupts with a laboring sigh.

“No, no. It’s fine. I’m sorry. Yeah, we can go for drinks.” He offers Rabelo a weak smile and clips him on the shoulder. “See you after the game then.”

“See you, Nate.” Rabelo watches him weave his way through a tangle of teammates, the black 29 on his retreating back growing smaller and smaller until it disappears out the door.

Something funny plays with his insides, twists them up into complicated knots he wouldn’t have been able to undo, Eagle Scout be damned. 

He can’t quite put his finger on it, though, so he pushes it out of his mind and goes to play some baseball.

* 

Robertson’s out of his mind by his third drink, and even for a lightweight like Nate, that’s a little bit much. Rabelo discreetly switches out his alcohol for water and soda, and keeps a surreptitious eye on Robertson, silently worrying and silently kicking himself in the ass for being such a girl.

Robertson flops against the bar and grabs blindly for glasses, guzzling down whatever he can get his hands on. Robertson closes his hand around Rabelo’s soda. “What’s ’is?” Robertson tries to pry Rabelo’s fingers away from the glass.

“It’s a soda, Nate.” Rabelo loosens Robertson’s grip. “You’re a mess.”

“Soda? You the designated driver tonight, Mike – Mikey?” he asks, something in his twinkling blue eyes going flat.

“Yeah. Aren’t I always?” Rabelo takes a sip of his soda, watching Robertson curiously.

Robertson waves the bartender over and offers her a lopsided grin. “M’buddy here needs a _real_ drink. Make ’im up somethin’ strong.”

“Nah, I’m all set. Thanks,” Rabelo says, apologetically.

“You’re a wuss,” Robertson slurs, pushing Rabelo in the chest with his palm. “Ain’t like a couplea drinks’ll kill ya.”

“I’m not gonna risk a DUI ’cause you think I’m a wuss.” Rabelo rolls his eyes and slurps pointedly at his soda, but Robertson just rocks back on his stool and laughs, a grating, cracked sound that hurts Rabelo to hear.

“I don’t jus’ think it, you _are_ one.” Robertson snags another drink and chokes it down with a wince. Robertson rubs his fingertips at his temple, and Rabelo touches his shoulder lightly, in concern.

“You okay?”

“ ’m fine, Mikey,” Robertson says, twisting out from under Rabelo’s hand. He starts to slip off the sleek bar stool and throws out a hand, digging his fingers into Rabelo’s arm.

“Yeah,” Rabelo grunts under his breath, getting a steadying arm around Robertson before he can fall. “You’re fine, all right. I think we oughta get back to the hotel before you fall and break your head.”

Robertson tries to push Rabelo away, but gives up after a few weak shoves and slumps in his arms. “Hate you.”

“You’ll thank me later.” Rabelo tosses some money next to their empty glasses and slides off his stool, gently tugging Robertson along. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d’ve smashed your head on the bar or something.”

“My hero,” Robertson intones dryly.

“Damn straight.” Rabelo leads him out of the bar and waves for a taxi.

Robertson puts his head on Rabelo’s shoulder and sighs. “What ’bout your rental?” he asks.

“I’ll get it later. I’m a little more worried about you choking on your own puke and dying than I am about the rental,” Rabelo snorts.

“Ain’t gonna choke on my puke and die,” Robertson says, with an indignant snort. “Gonna be fine.”

A slick yellow taxi pulls up alongside the curb and Rabelo pulls Robertson along. “You will be once we get you back to the hotel and in a cold shower.” Rabelo stuffs Robertson into the cab and climbs in with him, shutting the door behind them. “The Ritz-Carlton, please.”

The cabbie replies with a grunt and pulls away from the cub. Rabelo rolls up the screen and sits back, crossing his arms over his chest. Robertson clicks the power locks, and soon moves onto the power windows.

“How old are you, two?” Rabelo asks.

“Nah, I’m twenty-nine.” Robertson rolls the window down.

“You gonna act like it anytime soon?”

“You needta lighten up or somethin’, Mikey.” Robertson flashes him a grin, but Rabelo just rolls his eyes. “Nah, I’m serious. You’re way too uptight. You needta smile more.” Robertson flicks his index finger at Rabelo’s cheek and he squirms away.

“Quit it, Nate.” Rabelo bats at his hand and Robertson responds with a high-pitched, girlish giggle.

“You get the stick outta your ass an’ I will,” Robertson cackles.

“I’m not fuckin’ uptight, you asshole. I’m responsible.”

“Responsible schmesponsible,” Robertson says, with a sensible nod, as if he’s just imparted some nugget of wisdom on Rabelo that he would be wise to remember.

“Uh huh.” Rabelo shakes his head and closes his eyes. Robertson’s warm, damp breath skitters across the side of his neck and he squirms some more. “Quit it.”

“Quit what?” Robertson’s voice is right in his ear.

“Breathing on me.”

“You sound like my brother,” Robertson giggles. 

Robertson flashes a wicked grin and blows out his breath on Rabelo’s neck. Rabelo can smell the tequila, vodka, and whatever the hell else Robertson drank on his breath, sharp and pungent, inexplicably stomach-turning. Rabelo twists away and puts his head against the cool glass, the tangy, bitter smell of liquor making his stomach lurch.

Rabelo leans forward and rolls down the screen. “Hey, how much longer ’til we get to the hotel?”

“ ’Bout ten minutes.”

“Thanks.” Rabelo rolls the screen back up and sits back again. “I’m stuck with you for ten more minutes? Oh, great.”

“What, you don’ like me or somethin’? ’m I buggin’ you?” Robertson asks, but he doesn’t seem contrite; rather, he’s grinning wide enough to split his face in two.

“You always bug me,” Rabelo replies, with a smirk.

“An’ yet you always hangin’ out wit’ me,” Robertson crows, triumphantly. “You _love_ me.”

“Shut up. I do not.” Rabelo glares at him, jaw set, but Robertson just snickers into Rabelo’s shoulder.

Robertson presses his face into the space between Rabelo’s neck and shoulder, and punches his fist into the leather seat. “You sweet on me, Mikey?”

“You’re drunk.”

“That ain’t answerin’ my question,” Robertson giggles.

Rabelo glances down at Robertson, at the top of his head, and counts the red-blond hairs spiraling out in a whorl on his scalp. He reaches up and rests a hand at the back of Robertson’s head. “What was the question again?” Rabelo asks, sifting his fingers through Robertson’s hair.

Robertson shivers happily and rubs his cheek against Rabelo’s shoulder like a cat. “You sweet on me or what?”

“Sweet on you? Don’t even know what that’s supposedta mean.” Rabelo keeps petting, hoping Robertson will just pass out or fall asleep.

“You’re sweet on me, like crush sweet.” Robertson mouths at the fabric of Rabelo’s shirt, and he can feel the wetness on his shoulder.

Rabelo stills his hand on the back of Robertson’s neck and Robertson stops chewing on his shirt. He can see a dark crescent shape where Robertson’s mouth had been, and instinctively tightens his fingers in his hair.

“Hey,” and Rabelo snaps to attention. The cabbie’s rolled down the partition, and he’s shooting both of them nasty looks. “We’re here. You gonna pay for the ride or not?”

*

Rabelo props Robertson against the wall and digs into his pockets for his room key. “Come on, Nate. Where’s your key?”

“Dunno. Maybe the cabbie swiped it.” He rests a hand on Rabelo’s shoulder and tips his head back, Mona Lisa smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “He didn’ like us too much.”

“The cabbie didn’t swipe your goddamn room key.” Rabelo yanks Robertson’s pockets inside-out and sighs in frustration. “How the hell d’you lose your room key?”

“Maybe I’ll jus’ hafta stay with you and Raburn for the night, or somethin’.” Robertson curls his fingers in the shoulder seams of Rabelo’s shirt, as if testing the durability of the fabric.

“Just excellent.” Rabelo loops an arm loosely around Robertson’s waist and leads him to his and Raburn’s room. 

Rabelo leans Robertson against the wall and gets the door open. Raburn looks up when they enter, standing in front of the mirror and slicking back his thinning hair with globs of hair gel.

“Hey, guys. Back just in time. I’m goin’ out.” He puts the cap back on the gel and puts it on the dresser. Raburn gives Robertson a once over. “The hell happened to him?”

“Nate got well acquainted with José Cuervo and lost his room key.” Rabelo rolls his eyes and bumps the door shut with his hip. “I get to baby-sit ’til they can track down a replacement, I guess.”

“Maybe he’ll pass out or somethin’.” Raburn slings a sports coat over his shoulder and snaps a bulky, metallic-looking watch onto his wrist. “Don’t wait up for me, fellas.”

Rabelo tips Robertson back onto Raburn’s bed and looks up. “Oh, don’t worry. We won’t.”

Raburn exits and closes the door quietly behind him. Robertson sprawls onto his back and closes his eyes, a smile creeping slowly onto his face. Rabelo snorts and heads to the minibar to grab a bottled water.

“Mikey?”

Rabelo looks over, twisting off the cap and taking a drink. “Yeah?”

“D’you like me?” Robertson’s opened his eyes, butterfly-pinned Rabelo to the wall with his sharply, always surprisingly intelligent gaze.

“You already asked this, Nate,” Rabelo sighs, feeling much like an indulgent parent.

“You never said ’f you liked me or not.” Robertson struggles to sit up, but this proves fruitless and just flops back against the pillows. “Never said. So that must mean you don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Rabelo heads over to his bed and crawls in.

“Don’t like me.” Robertson finally manages to sit up and pulls his knees to his chest. Something flickers behind his eyes, and for a brief flash, he looks vulnerable. Rabelo’s never seen him this vulnerable before. Or, like, vulnerable at all.

“I do.” Rabelo sips a bit of water and puts the bottle on the nightstand.

“Oh, ’cause sometimes it don’t seem that way,” Robertson says. “But tonight – ”

“Tonight? What ’bout it?” Something goes tight and funny in Rabelo’s chest and he squeezes his hand around the plastic bottle on the nightstand.

“Somethin’ ’bout tonight, man. Dunno.” Robertson stalls, casting his eyes to the floor. “You touched my hair.”

“Oh. Sorry, I won’t do that again.” Rabelo stares at the bottle and swirls it in his hand, focuses hard on the cracks of prismed light reflected in the bottle from the bedside lamp.

“No, I mean. I liked it, I think. It felt nice,” Robertson says. His voice is open, and there’s something raw and young-sounding to it that makes Rabelo shiver. 

Rabelo keeps his eyes locked steadfastly on the water bottle. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” and Robertson’s voice is closer; he’s gotten out of Raburn’s bed and crossed to Rabelo. He puts a hand in Rabelo’s short, dark curls and rubs. “It was nice,” he says, barely a whisper, and Rabelo has to lean closer to make it out.

“Oh. I’m – glad.” Rabelo glances up and Robertson slips his fingers out of his hair.

Robertson grazes his fingertips over Rabelo’s jawline before stooping down until they’re eye level. Rabelo lowers his gaze and holds himself still, muscles tense and coiled, terrified to move or even to breathe.

Robertson turns his head and whispers into Rabelo’s neck. “You okay?” he asks softly.

Rabelo swallows. “I – yeah. What are you doing?”

Robertson trails his fingers lower, to the collar of Rabelo’s shirt. “What’m I doin’? I dunno.” Robertson laughs and flicks open the first button. “I’m drunk, nonea this’s my fault.”

Rabelo rests a hand on Robertson’s side and glances down at the hand casually flicking open his shirt, like it’s not actually happening to him. It’s happening to some other Mike Rabelo. He’s watching some other Mike Rabelo let his teammate unbutton his shirt.

“You gonna remember this come morning?” Rabelo asks, sneaking a hand under Robertson’s shirt to rub his side.

“Kinda a crapshoot. Though I ain’t as drunk as I think I am.” Robertson slides Rabelo’s shirt off his shoulders. “Why?”

“ ’Cause it’d kinda suck if you just forgot.” Rabelo murmurs, shrugging the shirt aside.

Robertson laughs and cups a hand against Rabelo’s cheek. “Woul’ja be all sad if I _did_ forget?”

Rabelo shrugs noncommittally. “Maybe.”

Robertson leans in closer until their lips are nearly touching, and Rabelo can smell the liquor on his breath. It turns his stomach even more, but Rabelo isn’t sure if it’s the liquor that’s doing that or Robertson himself. “Then you better make sure I don’t forget.”

Rabelo and Robertson lock gazes, and Robertson’s eyes are bright and clear. Rabelo can see for days and days, perfect Lakeland-blue skies, days without rain or clouds or end. Rabelo reaches up tentatively, before touching Robertson’s cheek, leaving his hand there.

Robertson sighs happily and closes his eyes, rubbing his sandpapery cheek against Rabelo’s palm.

Rabelo pauses. “Can you open your eyes?” he whispers, and Robertson does.

“How come?” Robertson tilts his head inquisitively.

“I just wanted to see.” Rabelo strokes his fingertips lightly down Robertson’s cheek.

“Wanted to see what?”

Rabelo dives in and presses his lips against Robertson’s, and answers the question.

*

Rabelo pillows his head on Robertson’s chest and curls into him, fighting against the slats of sunlight that are peeking through the Venetian blinds.

“Sun, sun, go away. That how it goes?” Robertson asks, drumming his fingertips on the taut skin of Rabelo’s shoulder blade. “Sun, sun, go away. Come again some other day.”

Rabelo snorts into Robertson’s chest. “That’s ‘rain, rain, go away,’ Nate.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Robertson breaks into a grin and rests his cheek atop Rabelo’s head. “Always thought it was the other way around.”

Rabelo snorts into Robertson’s chest and Robertson wriggles happily. “Anyways,” he mutters, pressing his mouth against the soft, pale skin over where Robertson’s heart is, “we got all the time in the world.”

Robertson grins even wider. “All the time in the world. I think I like that. You gonna show me some new tricks?”

Rabelo chuckles. “Maybe a few old ones too.”

Robertson ducks his head and plants a noisy kiss right on Rabelo’s forehead before drawing the covers up. “Let’s put that time to good use then.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Rabelo grins up at Robertson and pulls the covers all the way over their heads.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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